


For Art's Sake

by HeleneOfFlowers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Jehan died at the barricade, M/M, Minor Character Death, Montparnasse is interested in poetry, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeleneOfFlowers/pseuds/HeleneOfFlowers
Summary: Montparnasse had always imagined Jehan would die in one big meaningful blow, taking everything around him with him. Instead, it felt like leaves losing their colour in autumn before falling to the ground one by one. For Montparnasse, Jehan's death was the arrival of cold, frost and winter.





	1. Erato

**Author's Note:**

> In greek mythology, the Mount Parnassus is the place where Apollo and the 9 muses meet, and since my entire being belongs to Jehanparnasse and there was a literary current called the Parnasse in XIXth century France which honestly fits Montparnasse so well, I simply had to write a fic about Montparnasse getting more interested in poetry and having his own thoughts about the subject. I used this opportunity to read up on all the old french authors I should have learned about last year in school, but you know the proverb: Better late than never! I hope you like the fic, if you notice any mistakes, please tell me!
> 
> P.S: The title comes from a phrase by Théophile Gautier, one of the leaders of the Parnasse movement, proclaiming "L'art pour l'art" aka Art for the sake of art, in contradiction to the romantic movement, which was too close to politcs and too engaged.

Jean Prouvaire's death had been like autumn, resulting in an never ending winter. Montparnasse had expected it as one expects the summer to end. However, he had always imagined he would crumble along, like a building which has lost the foundation it was build on. For Montparnasse, Jehan's death had to be tragically beautiful, short and bright, like an explosion illuminating everything before taking it with him. Montparnasse was quite sure that's what it must have been like for Jehan. One bullet was all it took.  
For Montparnasse however, Jehan's death had been a phenomenon of months, years even. It had begun slowly, almost imperceptibly, like nights growing longer and days growing colder before one day, you wake up in the dark, frost forming on the glass of the windows and with the ground covered in snow.  
After the barricade had failed, Montparnasse went on with his business as usual. There was nothing he could do to change it, so it served no purpose to dwell in the past. He was careful to avoid both the Café Musain, where Jehan had led him only once, hoping he could be persuaded by his beliefs in the right atmosphere and by other people, as well as Jehan's, or at least what used to be Jehan's, apartment. He feared to meet a member of Jehan's family, who might want to take back his belongings, for no matter how disgraceful and eccentric he might have appeared to them, you don't simply throw away expensive furniture.  
One month after the barricade, Azelma stumbled into his way. She looked even thinner and miserable than the last time they had seen each other. She just wanted to continue running after some rich old bourgeois and his daughter, when he caught her upper arm and brought her to a halt.  
“Azelma, where is your family? Thénardier hasn't contacted me since that affair at Rue Plumet and the others seem to have vanished.” It was true. He had seen neither Éponine nor Gavroche since June and both of them normally talked to him regularly. Azelma looked at him as if he had asked her what colour the sky was.  
“Don't you know? They went to one of these barricades and got themselves killed! Papa says they got what they deserve, mingling with these stupid rich boys.” Without another word, she broke free of his grip and ran away from him. Montparnasse's gaze followed her until she turned around the next corner before he swiftly walked off into the opposite direction. So Jehan wasn't the only one who had stupidly thrown away their lives in the heat of battle. 

Two weeks later, from one day to another, Montparnasse's breath turned to fog from the cold inside him. It had been unnaturally hot that day and Montparnasses clothes were clinging on to his skin from the sweat. He had spent his day at the Champs Elysées, pickpocketing tourists and rich Parisians alike. Shortly before the sun had begun to set, he had made his way to the hill Montmartre, in the hope of catching some starving artist he could enrapture with the beauty Montparnasse knew he possessed. He climbed on top of the hills, wearing his jacket over his arm and his hat resting on sweat drenched lock when he finally arrived at the top and turned around to appreciate the view. The beauty of the scenery which unfolded in front of Montparnasse hit him like a punch to the stomach. The sun was slowly melting into the horizon, surrounded by dancing hues of glowing orange, flaming red and melancholic purple, turning the entire city into a shadow of its own silhouette, with only the Seine, reflecting the imagery of the sky, flowing through it like a river of burning hot magma.  
_I have to tell Jehan about this,_ thought Montparnasse, already taking a step to climb down the hill again, before freezing on the spot. The realisation that he couldn't tell Jehan about it anymore, that there was nobody he could tell about this, spread through him like ice water flowing through his veins. How could this happen? He knew Jehan was dead. Ever since the barricade, he had never forgotten about it. Why now? How?  
It had been a slip. It wouldn't happen again. Jehan was dead. There was nothing he could do to change that. Shaking his head, Montparnasse walked away with a determined step. No need to dwell on a finished past. 

The cold had entered a long-term relationship with both the sun and the moon by the time Montparnasse took part in his next big robbery with Patron-Minette. August was coming to an end, and they all desperately needed money. They had chosen the house of a rich politician as their target and planned on breaking in two days into his vacation with his mistress and while his aristocratic wife was visiting her parents with their children. It was night, all the house staff had either gone with the family or were sleeping upstairs. The house was empty as it could have been and the robbery itself was a piece of cake, which was coincidentally sitting on the counter. Gueulemer promptly decided to take it with him, which promptly resulted in Babet nearly hitting it out of his hands while at the same time whispering angrily to put back the cake, that they had agreed on only taking necessary things, and that cake most definitely wasn't necessary, to which Gueulemer answered that food was most definitely necessary, especially cake, since none of them actually knew when was the next time they would get to eat something like it. Montparnasse simply rolled his eyes at them and walked out of the house with a bag full of silver and gold on his shoulder and two long knives in his coat, Brujon walking directly behind him. The others could do what they wanted, as long as they didn't rat him out in case they got caught. Hidden by the dark cloak the night had thrown over the city, he made his way through little alleys to their hide away, where they had also decided to meet up if they had to split up. He had just put down the bag when he heard somebody singing loudly and off key. He hurried to hide his plunder and to watch if the bad singer was of any danger. As it turned out, that was not the case. It was simply a national guard, drunk and stumbling over the pavement so that any nice person would have feared he would fall and break something. However, Montparnasse was everything but a nice person, and so he cared for something entirely different. The National Guard was still wearing his uniform and leaned against his rifle to guard his balance. There was no way in knowing whether or not said rifle was loaded, but that was no issue to Montparnasse. Without another thought, he followed the man as soon as he had passed him. Hiding in the shadows, never leaving his eyes of the guard and the metal of the rifle shining in the moonlight. It wasn't long before Montparnasse had to come to a decision what to do with the man, for he ran into a dead end, a simple brick wall cutting off his way. In all his drunkenness, the man was utterly lost. He turned around to go back, but Montparnasse had already decided of his fate. All it took was one clean cut with his knife, and the guard fell to the floor. It was much simpler that way. No shooting, no loudly shouted proclamations of love about a nation which did not care about oneself, no execution. Nothing. Just one killer and his victim. Just the way Montparnasse liked it. 

Over the next weeks, the number of attacks on members of the National Guard grew. Some were fatal, others not. Some were robberies, others not. One of the victims had all his money and an expensive ring on him when he was found the next morning, but his wife and comrades noticed he was missing a poetry book he used to carry with him at all times. It had been his favourite. After a week, everyone had forgotten about such a minor detail. Montparnasse however, read it over and over, until it nearly fell apart in his hands. 

The other members of Patron-Minette rose gladly to the occasion of making fun of him for his new-found liking of poetry. Had he found a pretty lady he had to woo and impress with new-found charms? Where had he learned to read anyway? Did he desire to turn his back on them and spend the rest of his life with his new found love, aspiring to become a member of the Académie Française? They learned to stop after the mockery resulted in a fist fight. They all knew better than to anger their youngest member. His age did nothing to lessen their fear of what he was capable of. They had learned a long time ago that in most cases, their youngest member was the quickest to draw his blade if the situation called for it. And so Montparnasse continued to read, silently and sometimes with great distress, one poem after the other, over and over again. With each verse he read, with each rhyme he spoke, the leaves began to fall around him and after a year, the floor was covered in brown, red, orange and yellow. The only colour which had vanished forever from the landscape that was now Montparnasse's soul was the vivid green of Jehan's eyes. 

The year was 1934, and Winter had finally come. Montparnasse had grown almost fluent in reading. For some time, he had used his newly acquired skill reading the newspapers rich bourgeois left on the benches in the park, but he quickly dismissed the activity after finding out the newspapers held no news which were of interest for him. Montparnasse knew what he needed to know. The war the kind fought somewhere on the other side of the globe was of no importance to somebody like him. And so he returned to poetry.  
The next work of poetry which Montparnasse acquired was entitled Les Feuilles d'Automne. It had previously belonged to a young student who had scribbled into the small book everything he noticed about the poems. The first poem was entitled À M. Lamartine and half of the words were a mystery to Montparnasse, so he stopped reading. The others weren't much better, and after the week, the book was of no use to Montparnasse anymore. Against all odds, however, he didn't throw it away. He kept it next to his knife inside his coat, which grew thinner and thinner. Soon he would have to get a new one. It took 2 months before Montparnasse decided to give poetry another shot. He did so by getting himself a dictionary. It was heavy, and sometimes the definitions were even less understandable than the word the tried to describe, but it helped him, at least a little. Soon after that, whenever he had free time and enough money, Montparnasse began to keep close to young literature enthusiasts, who would spend their days and nights sitting in cafés, discussing the newest work of Balzac, Sand and Stendhal, reading prose and poetry out loud, filling the air with their voices and the melody of their writing. Often, Montparnasse scoffed at their ideas and their ideals. Words and phrases held no power, they could not change anything. All they could bring was destruction and false hope. If there was one thing Montparnasse had learned, then that there was no point in writing for politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the first chapter and you know the second quickest way to an author's heart is through comments! I would love to hear your opinion and constructive criticism is always welcome!
> 
> You can also leave a comment on tumblr at mont-parnasses.tumblr.com!
> 
> P.S: Wow! over a hundred hits already! I never expected so many considering this is a very minor character centric fic! Thank you so much!


	2. Calliope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I wanted to make this story only three chapters long, and this one should have included the time-span from 1835 to 1848, but it was already long enough, and I don't like having chapters which differ greatly in length, so here you go! I hope you enjoy it!

It took Patron-Minette another year before the long reigning tension became too much and everything fell to shambles. The little gang had never been the same ever since Claquesous was killed at the barricade. They didn't know who had done it, they didn't even know what Claquesous was even doing there. The only thing they knew is that he was dead and that Brujon had somewhat taken his place. It had worked out since they hadn't been caught yet. Montparnasse, however, had grown more and more distant of the gang over the last years. He had grown more critical. It wasn't that he thought what they were doing was bad. He could never think that way since their way of living was the only way he knew, the only way he understood. But sometimes he couldn't help but think how much better he could achieve. Better than hiding in the shadows, better than seducing people just to gut or rob them in some dark alley. Montparnasse knew he was made to achieve great things. Not destined, for destiny implied some sort of higher power and there was nothing Montparnasse despised more than not being in control of things, but Mother Nature had given him everything he needed to escape the streets: Beauty, charm, the ability to learn and adapt. Montparnasse had decided he would not end his life as a street dog. He deserved better. Unfortunately for him, Babet was not so enthusiastic about the changes their youngest member was going through. It ended in the way most disagreement between criminals end. With one of them lying on the floor with a blade between his ribs. And as things go, it only made everything worse. 

“Parnasse, you lying bastard! I knew we couldn't trust you! I said it from the beginning! How much did the cops pay you? A new haircut? A new coat? Did they say you could go to university like the bourgeois scum you've become? I'm gonna hunt you, Parnasse! I'm gunna hunt you and splatter your insides over the pavement!” Gueulemer's screams echoed through the night, following Montparnasse like a nightmare as he was running away from his former colleagues through dark alleys over wet stone. Some might have called Patron-Minette an ultra-criminal group of friends. However, as from the night of the 18th of March 1835, Patron-Minette, whose members used to control the Parisian underground, was history. 

For the next few years, Montparnasse disappeared. Nobody knew where he had gone, but it was not as if anybody complained about his absence. The police forces did not notice and whoever else knew him was more relieved than concerned. Montparnasse however, had simply taken some time out. Nowadays we might say he went to find himself but he preferred to say he had a new found business to look after. However, on a rain clad morning in March 1839, Montparnasse set foot into Paris again. The clouds hung over the city and if Montparnasse hadn't known better, he might have thought the weather to be a bad omen for his return. However, this kind of weather was to be expected in this kind of season, and so he simply hoped the mud wouldn't ruin his boots.  
The first thing Montparnasse did was find himself a cheap place to sleep. Fortunately for him, it did not take him long, and soon enough he was out on the dirty streets of Paris again. While the rain washed over the pavement, it did nothing against the rotting piles of garbage piling up on the side of the streets. At least the stench was more or less bearable, which would not be the case as soon as summer came and the heat only made it worse.  
Montparnasse next goal was to find a café, both to gather information and to warm himself up. This one was a bit harder to find. Most cafés still reeked of the arrogance and the bad wine which the bourgeois and nouveaux riches brought with them, or they simply didn't exalt the right atmosphere for Montparnasse to find what he was looking for. It had nearly stopped raining and he had already crossed the Seine twice when Montparnasse finally found a bistro to his liking in the 3rd arrondissement, just next to the river bank. It was dark and small, but open and the clients seemed to be just what Montparnasse was looking for. After sitting down in the centre of the main room and ordering a _café au lait_ , Montparnasse concentrated on the numerous discussions which were ongoing around him. To his left, two old men were talking about the results of the legislative election of last week, and how it the Orleanists had finally lost their leading position in the chamber of deputies. To his right sat a group of over enthusiastic and already slightly tipsy students, bragging loudly about their accomplishments and their latest amorous escapades; nothing of interest to Montparnasse. He would just have to wait until the occasion arose.  
Over the next few weeks, Montparnasse established a fairly consistent routine of his everyday life. First, he would rise whenever he pleased, before going to the bakery and getting himself something for breakfast. He would pay with money he had acquired the days beforehand, before making his way to the university, to spy a bit on the students there. More often than not, they were running around with money they didn't need and books they didn't understand, so Montparnasse felt free to help them pass on their belongings to somebody with a better use for it.  
It was on this daily supply run that he met Exature. Montparnasse had just gotten the new issue of _Le Revue de Paris_ from a young fellow who had been excitedly chatting with a young lady which it seemed he was trying to woo through extensive knowledge about the current socio-political situation in the German confederation. A particularly boring topic of he had bothered to ask Montparnasse, and not a successful one. It was more likely to land him in a fistfight than in the bed of the woman he was courting. Quite exalted about his newest acquisition, Montparnasse noticed only too late how an older student was not paying attention to where he was going and promptly ran into him. The result were a loud shout of surprise, Montparnasse quickly searching through the other man's pockets -to his surprise, he did not find anything of use- and everyone's books on the floor.  
“I haven't seen you here before, my friend. What do you study?”, asked the other man while handing the magazine back to Montparnasse. He wore was dressed in exactly the same fashion as all the other students around him, with the addition of an expensive looking bag hanging over his should and his cravat only hanging loosely around his collar. With his light hair and overly innocent but excited look in his eyes, he was most definitely Montparnasse's type. But now was not the time to make new acquaintances.  
“Nothing, so far. I fear no offer a university can give me is to my satisfaction,” replied Montparnasse. It was no lie, in the literal sense of the word. He had no need or want to attend university, and while he had slowly acquainted himself with several scholars and infiltrated various student communities in Reims, Strasbourg and Avignon, the appeal of wasting your time in such an elitist and arrogant manner was lost to him.  
“Well, I hope you end up finding something to your liking. My name is Jean Exature. Nice to meet you. You seem to have a decent liking in good literature. If you find yourself free to discuss a few topics, just ask for me at the _Chat Noir_. You know where to find it, right?”  
“I do. If I show up, I hope you will have something interesting to say!” Lifting his hat and without looking back, Montparnasse went on his way. 

To be fair, Montparnasse had completely forgotten about Exature and his invitation when he ended up at the _Chat Noir_ , on a quest for a new, short-lived bed companion. He had spent the last night in his apartment, unable to sleep because of the unbearable heat which laid over Paris these days. The walls only trapped the old air inside and Montparnasse had yet to figure out a way to cool himself down.  
And so he found himself spending his last sous to buy a lemonade. He had to admit that it was a good lemonade and that most importantly, it was cool, but was cut short in his appreciation of the drink by a heavy hand on his shoulders. It was Exature with a smile as bright as the rising sun.  
“I knew you would show up one day! Come join us, we were just talking about Nadier's newest work.” Without waiting for Montparnasse's response, he simply dragged the younger man with him to a table at the back of the café. “Everyone, may I present you...”  
“Montparnasse.”  
“Right, Montparnasse. Montparnasse, sitting right here are the finest and brightest students you will find in all of Paris.” When he heard these words, Montparnasse knew he was doomed. He had already refused to take part in a group of idealistic young students who knew nothing of the real world out there. He should simply turn on his heels an walk out of the café, hoping to never see Exature again. That's what he should do. Instead, Montparnasse placed his hat on the next best table and sat down. He knew he would regret this sooner or later, but right now, in this very Moment, Montparnasse didn't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, hit me up in the comments if you have anything to say, or write me on tumblr: [mont-parnasses.tumblr.com](http://mont-parnasses.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Melpomene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse learns a lot, about himself, the others, literature, and even a bit about Exature. However, what he has not learned until now, is that your past always catches up with you somehow, and there's nothing you can do to prevent it. (1839-1841)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm really sorry it took so long for this chapter, but on one hand it took me some time to find a way I could productively write again (it's a blessing to always carry a notebook with you and I get so much shit done) but I also had to look some stuff up which made this paper writing process a lot less smooth than I had intended it to be. I warning you now, it's not gonna be much better for the next chapter bc the amount of stuff I know I'm gonna have to research is unbelievable so get ready to wait some more. But I'm doing my best and want this fic to be as historically accurate as possible, so there's no way around it :)  
> Secondly, I feel as if this chapter is a lot less poetic than the first ones, but honestly, the old poetic style wouldn't have matched the new tone and story telling speed at all, so I'm gonna have to skip that. Also, I expected this chapter to be 2k words at max, but once again, it looks like once again, I underestimated myself. And of course, this chapter had to be cut in half once again, so this story will have at least 5 chapters instead of the original 3. I'm really bad at planning before hand. Anyway, I hope you like the chapter and don't hesitate to comment!

Montparnasse did not know what made him go back to Exature and his friends over and over again. Of course, there were always the free drinks that came along with sharing his opinion about the topic of a particularly heated discussion, but that was something he could also acquire in any other bistro in Paris. It couldn't be the routine of meeting up twice a week -once when the others had to take exams- for Montparnasse had had his very own routine before, and he still strictly followed it whenever he had time for himself. He told himself it mus be the intellectual stimulation he had learned to appreciate over the last few years. Even though his rhetoric and his speech still stood out among the group of well-educated young men, Montparnasse thankfully managed to hide it quite well, and so the others though of him as the brooding, withdrawn son of a disgraced aristocratic family fallen into ruin. He did not complain.  
After a few months, Montparnasse noticed himself looking forward to the next meeting, actually buying a literature magazine Compagnard had recommended him. It was different than everything else he had read before, and he surprisingly like the gush of fresh air after all the heavy classic literature he had swallowed ever since taking even the most minimal interest in the written word. When he told Compagnard that, the older man began to laugh, head thrown back and smacking his thighs.  
“You are too serious, Montparnasse! You have to get to know literature and writing in all its aspects, or you will forever be stuck where you are now and eventually grow bored of it, which would be a great shame since the art of the word is the purest and holiest art of all! Tell me, have you ever read something of La Fontaine?”  
Montparnasse had once listened to a lecture on the man but had stopped paying attention as soon as he understood the poet in question was long dead. To Montparnasse, the dead had lost their voices and when one could not talk, then they had nothing interesting to say. But he couldn't tell Compagnard that, for the man was a historian and easily offended as soon as you spoke ill about the past and the people living in it. And so Montparnasse found himself reading fables about wolves and lambs, crows and cheese, foxes and storks.  
He liked it. There were no arrogant and over glorified views on the nature of relationships, but it still lacked a certain finesse. How could a man with such simple, nearly mundane ideas still be remembered two centuries later? It was in moments such as these that Montparnasse recognized once again the barriers which separated him from truly belonging to the smart and wealthy. 

Two years passed, and Montparnasse learned a lot. He learned about foreign literature, himself, the people around him. He learned nothing about Paris, for the city was his home and held no secrets left to hide from him. The only thing he didn't learn to understand was Exature himself, the man who had opened him the door to all of this. If Montparnasse was a mystery to the other members of their little reunion, Exature was a riddle not wanting to be solved. At first, he seemed open and there was no one who didn't know even the smallest things about him. Exature preferred coffee over any kind of alcohol, his best friend while he was young had been a stray cat who was missing one ear and his older sister, Marguerite, had always teased him mercilessly about it. About Exaltur'res thoughts, however, about his opinions regarding most things, Montparnasse was kept in the dark, especially when it came to his perception and conviction about Montparnasse himself. On one day, he could welcome him with open arms, inviting him over to his table, introducing him to new people every time, the next he did not talk to them at all, but simply dropped by to return a book or to give back a piece of clothing someone had forgotten the last time. It was impossible to read him and Montparnasse found himself quite frustrated when he finally admitted it to himself. He was good at reading people even one of the best of Paris if you asked him. It had been nothing more than a tool to his survival, but it had been one he was proud of. Now, Montparnasse found himself in the unsettling position of wanting Exature to either like him -for it was awkward if the person who invited him into the group in the first place ended up being the only one who did not appreciate his company- or at least to express his dislike for him directly so that there was no doubt left. It had always been easier to be hated than to stay in the dark about the way someone thought about you. At least, that's what Montparnasse thought. If he had known what would happen two weeks later and remembered why he had left Paris in 1935 in the first place, then probably none of it would have happened.

The clouds hung heavy in the sky, hiding the moon, covering even the street lamps in shadow. The evening had gone on longer than Montparnasse had anticipated, and so he found himself kicked out of the bistro with the other when the owner announced that they were closing.  
It was the first time something like this had happened to Montparnasse. Under normal circumstances, he would have left at least one hour before anyone else as not to miss the most productive hours of the night for making money. This night, however, Montparnasse had gone out with the reassuring knowledge to have made enough money over the previous weeks not to have to worry about it in the following ones. He had given out one round of drink for everyone who agreed with him on his stand about Hegel's _Elements of the Philosophy of Rights_ , a method of persuasion which St-Exupéry had recognized immediately as very effective, and thus decided to use for his side of the debate as well, a decision that led to Exature agreeing with him sooner than he would have done otherwise. His decision to argue against him had done nothing to Montparnasse, for he had learned that betrayal was rather common in their ranks, at least when it came to literalistic discussions and disagreements. He had also quickly gotten a certain liking to it. It was refreshing to be allowed to have your own opinion on a matter as long as you could explain why. Of course, sometimes Montparnasse could not allow himself to explain his opinion on the debate topic. Even though most of the group had taken a certain liking to his eccentric ways, he was sure they wouldn't want having a criminal and a murderer in their own ranks. This knowledge hurt Montparnasse only a little bit, and definitely not enough to make him regret any of his behaviour. He wouldn't allow people who didn't understand his motives to make him feel bad about it.  
This evening, however, the topic of their discussion had been nothing political, philosophical or literalistic for that matter. It had been the next soiree organized by Monsieur and Madame Calais. He was renowned as one of Paris' experts on the behalf of wine and absinthe, a passion he indulged in almost every day, whereas his wife followed the much less rewarded profession of being a journalist. Of course, there were no articles written by a certain Constance Calais, but most of Paris, no, most of France's educated class recognized the sharp feather which had already brought down some of the countries most powerful men. To guard her very public secret, she published her work with the help of young, talentless writers too full of themselves to actually write down anything worth reading, a fact easily recognized by anyone who actually had the time and energy to read any of the articles they had written whenever Madame Calais was out of town and unavailable.  
Montparnasse had only found out about her after more of than a year of acquainting Exature and his friends. Sometimes he had the feeling he disagreed with her more than he did not, but he couldn't help pitying her, for being married to someone who made her life a living hell, for being a woman, for the time she was born into.  
Exature, as always, had received an invitation to the soiree. Since running into Montparnasse in front of the Sorbonne, he had established himself as one of Paris' most promising your writers and poets. His first novel was acclaimed by critiques and journals alike and had opened him nearly every door in the city. However, his new-found fame did not stop him from meeting up with his friends whenever he could, which they all appreciated.  
After the owner had expelled them from his bistro, they were all standing outside in the cold, some still deeply engrossed in their conversation as the other already discussed vividly which venues were still open at this time of night. Montparnasse, who had not planned on staying this late in the first place, excused himself and made his was to his apartment. He had barely made a few steps when he heard Exature shouting.  
“Montparnasse, wait! I'm coming with you!”  
Surprised, Montparnasse turned around to see Exature running toward him, his coat flapping behind him.  
“Thank you,” he said as he came to stand beside him. “ I fear I don't have the luxury of time to search for entertainment at such a late hour and my place is in the same direction, so I thought we could walk together?”  
Surprised by the offer, Montparnasse didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded. Exature smile, a smile which made his lips wide and his eyes small, and continued to talk down the street. It took Montparnasse only one step to follow suit, and thanks to his long legs, they were immediately walking side by side silently.  
In Montparnasse's opinion, their walk could have gone on like that forever. However, he had made that calculation without taking into account the danger which was Paris' criminal underworld.  
They had just passed the Rue du Bac, when suddenly there were steps behind them and before Montparnasse knew what was happening, he felt the cold bite of a knife's blade at his throat, joined by the repugnant smell of bad breath and even worse personal hygiene.  
“Told you I'd make you pay for Babet, didn't I?”  
Exature, who had continued walking for a few meter before noticing Montparnasse was no longer by his side, turned around and froze in shock.  
“Montparnasse? Why...”  
Gueulemer simply laughed. “Well, looks like our little bird here did indeed manage to get into the Académie Française! Or at least the next best thing. Tell me, 'Parnasse, does your little friend here know who you truly are?”  
“Montparnasse, who is this? How does he know you?”, exclaimed Exature, thankfully still standing at a safe distance. Gueulemer laughed again. He had an ugly laugh, one you could hear out he was missing two teeth.  
“Come one, Montparnasse, tell him how you know me? Isn't honesty valued highly among peacocks like you?”  
During all of this, Montparnasse was concentrating too much on breathing and swallowing without cutting himself and dying in the process, that he couldn't think of anything to say. He preferred much more staying alive than having to explain the situation to Exature. It turned out that it didn't bother Gueulemer in the slightest, since he simply continued talking, still holding the knife to Montparnasse's throat.  
“You see, good sir, Montparnasse here used to be the same kind of rat as I still am. Born near the cemetery of Montparnasse, named after his birthplace and since then, always lying, stealing, even murdering. Did you know he was a murderer, monsieur?, Yeah, didn't think so. Truly a great man, one of the best and brightest in all of Paris. We used to work together, you know? He was good. Always knew the right people to get out of trouble and into the right houses to rob. A true master of his craft. Unfortunately, his murderous nature got the best of him in the end, and so he killed one of us, fleeing like a coward instead of facing me like an honourable criminal. So of course, I promised him I would kill him. Not back then, but one day and that day has now finally come.”  
Exature had a strange look on his face, one Montparnasse could not read. It appeared to be a mixture of disgust, arrogance, and uncertainty.  
“Monsieur, I'm truly sorry for what happened to your friend, but I fear Montparnasse here is not the man you're looking for. Montparnasse, tell him he's wrong and that he should let you go.”  
Montparnasse was still concentrating on the knife at his throat and on no killing himself, so he didn't say anything. Even if he could have talked, he probably wouldn't have defended himself. Firstly, because Gueulemer knew very well that he was lying and secondly because he had been right: Montparnasse did not like lying. In most cases, you could still manipulate a person to your liking by telling them a carefully dissected version of the truth and if you couldn't, wasn't wasn't worth it in the first place.  
“You see, he can't tell me I'm wrong because what I'm telling you is true. Now, good sir, you have already suffered a terrible night by learning you have been lied to and deceived for I don't know how long. I would hate to ruin it any further. Please, I will be eternally grateful if you would leave Montparnasse and me alone to sort out business.”  
Exature did not wait for Gueulemer to say anything else and turned around to walk away, turning right at the next corner. As Gueulemer lifted the knife from Montparnasse's throat to slam him against the nearest wall, he could finally see him for the first time in 6 years. If one had to keep themselves short, they would have said Gueulemer had grown old. His face had turned flabby, his muscles had disappeared, his eyes and cheeks were sunken in, having lost all their colour. His appearance was only worsened by his old, dusty coat which once upon a time might have permitted him to smuggle himself into one of the more expensive venues of the city , but now looked like somebody had dunked it into a sack of dirty flour. Gueulemer himself could have been mistaken for the ghost of his former self.  
By the time Montparnasse had taken in the physique of the man holding him to the wall, the knife had found its way back to his throat.  
“Looks like all of my hard work has paid off, boy. Do you know what I did to find you? I learned to read, to understand, to be patient. Everything you did which disgusts me so much. I even infiltrated these little cafés you wasted so much time in. And just when I thought of giving up because even you have to admit, 6 years is a long time and while I did think of you every time and how I would slowly squeeze the life out of you, I might have forgotten you if you had kept low for a little longer. But then I listened to a very interesting conversation of two young boys talking about something uninteresting and mentioned your name. I followed them and guess who I found? That's right. You. All of my work has paid off.” Gueulemer's hand was trembling from barely held back excitement. Montparnasse was beginning to fear he was not getting out of this entire affair alive. At least the blade wasn't grazing his skin anymore.  
“And the best is, I get to have you all for myself. No police officer who will catch you from right under my nose. No husband or father of one of your silly conquests gutting you out of worry for the girl's honour. You have no idea of the joy I'm feeling right now, Montparnasse. You lack the imagination.”  
Gueulemer's mocking smile had turned into a terrifying grin. Montparnasse had just accepted the fact that this was the last moment of his life, in a dark, dirty alley, in an outfit not fashionable enough to be caught dead in it -he had always wished to be dressed to the T when he was buried- when a loud whistling caught both of their attention. Without hesitating, Montparnasse rose to the occasion, the last one he might have to get out of this alive and gripped Gueulemer's hand as tight as he could, twisting it away from himself. They struggled, no one had the upper hand when suddenly Gueulemer's body grew slack. Montparnasse let go and ran away. Away from the nearing police officer, away from Gueulemer's corpse, away from the light and into the dark. 

To Montparnasse's surprise, Gueulemer's death did not change anything for him. Beginning the next morning, he returned to his routines, stepping out onto the streets in the morning, walking to one of the cafés where he was sure to meet someone in the evening, chatting, drinking, arguing. It was normal. If he felt sadness, it was over his lack of response to killing once again someone who once had been essential to his survival. If there was one thing that had changed, it was Exature. For weeks, his visits to their little group became rarer and rarer. The others thought nothing of it, he was certainly writing his next book he had told them so much about, and as long as they knew where he was, they didn't feel the need to worry. Montparnasse was the only one who noticed how Exature always turned away from him, avoided looking at him, never even saying hello. He could not blame him. Nobody wanted to be friends with a murderer. 

If the apartment had not been as silent as a grave, Montparnasse would have missed the quiet knocking which pulled from his deep concentration as he was bent over _Oliver Twist_. He listened carefully, quite sure to have imagined for the sun had set long ago and there was no reason for anyone to seek him out at such an hour. But the knocking came again, this time a bit louder. Still suspicious, Montparnasse stood up and walked to the door, hesitating a bit before opening, ready to defend himself if the person on the other side of the door wanted trouble. However, Exature was not the kind of person to attack someone while standing in the threshold, even if he had intended to harm him. The silence which followed Montparnasse opening the door was deafening. Montparnasse did not know what to say and for a few but very long seconds, it seemed Exature had forgotten what he had intended to tell me.  
“I'm sorry.”  
“For what?”  
“For being so impolite to you. For leaving you along with that man. I didn't sleep for the entire night, and I felt unbelievably relieved when I saw you were alive. I could never have forgiven myself if something were to happen to you because I left you alone.”  
“I don't blame your for it.”  
“You should. I'm surprised you're even talking to me right now, after everything I did to you.”  
“Why wouldn't I? To be frank, I'm more surprised you can still look me in the eyes after everything Gueulemer has told you.”  
“I have to admit, I was shocked at first, and believed him, but the longer I thought about it, the more unbelievable it seemed. You're smart, Montparnasse, and educated. You can talk to everyone without any difficulty, have a great rhetoric and I've never seen you lose an argument you wanted to win. Somebody like you could never be whatever that men told me about you. You're a good person. But you must tell me, how did you escape? Did he see reason and let you go in the end?”  
“He was distracted by a police officer whistling after someone. I took his knife and killed him.”  
Exature's eyes widened in shock. Montparnasse did have a little pity with him. He should have broken the news more carefully. However, he could not help but feel good about finally being able to talk openly about everything.  
“So, everything he said...”  
“It's true. I was born next to the Montparnasse cemetery in 1913 to a poor and unloving mother who did not want me. I have lied, robbed, stolen and killed more than you can ever imagine and Gueulemer, Babet and I used indeed to work together for break-ins until I killed Babet.”  
“But everything you told me, about your travel to Rouen and Montpellier...?”  
“It's true all the same. A...”  
Once more, Montparnasse hesitated.  
“A lover of mine taught me to basics of reading. After their death, I continued to teach myself. I have been to Rouen and Montpellier, to Strasbourg and Bordeaux. I do not agree with Descartes' dualism and can't help but think that Rousseau was a hopeless optimist. I can't change who I am, Exature, but I can try to show you the best I can I am not limited to the evil I have suffered through and done to others.”  
In the following silence, it was impossible to know what Exature was thinking in this exact moment. Neither his mimic nor his posture betrayed any thought and Montparnasse was left to wait anxiously what his response would be.  
“I don't know what to say, but I have to admit to myself I have known you for long enough to know there is some good in you. I do not know how and if it transcends the dark in your soul, but I most sincerely hope it does. I am ready to give you a chance to prove yourself, Montparnasse, to prove that you can be better than the men you were for in that alley and more like the one I used to know.”  
“I can't promise I can.”  
“You can promise you will try.”  
“I can.”  
“That's all I can expect from you. I apologize for interrupting you so late at night. I hope to see you tomorrow. Good night.”  
“Good night.”  
Exature stepped back into the corridor walked away. Montparnasse closed the door. Once again, the small apartment was reigned by complete silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I would love to hear what you thought about it!


	4. Clio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exature publishes his second novel, a mysterious new critic causes a stir and sometimes, one can't escape the course of history, no matter how much they want to. (1841-1848)

The following morning, Montparnasse found Exature in his usual company, surrounded by Compagnard, Saint-Exupery and the others while drinking coffee and eating biscuits. Montparnasse, not knowing how to behave after his -in retrospective quite foolish, if he was being honest with himself- confession the previous night, sat down the furthest away possible from Exature without making it look as if he was actively avoiding him. He ordered a plate of homemade biscuits alongside a cup of tea. The biscuits were a specialty of the café, baked with cinnamon and cane sugar and therefore more expensive than the usual baked goods one could acquire at any _boulangerie artisanale_ , but it was an expense he was willing to make the few times they were there.  
As usual, Montparnasse was soon drawn into the discussion, talking about this and that. It went on and on until in the early hours of the afternoon when the other began to trickle out, talking about classes or other “activities” they had to attend. In the end, only Exature and Montparnasse were left, sitting a few meter apart of each other, each drinking to occupy themselves in the awkward silence which reigned in the room.  
“Why did you keep to yourself about what I told you?”, Montparnasse finally asked, putting his cup down on the table, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary.  
“If I'm being honest, I'm not sure. I think it might have to do with the sheer surprise of having you be this honest. You trusted me with the truth and I've never been one to betray my friend's trust.”  
Montparnasse swallowed the knot which began to form in his throat. He had begun this conversation and he would not flee from it like a coward, simply because he wasn't used to talking about these kinds of things, friends and relationships in general. He took another sip.  
“When you said there was some good in me... Do you truly believe that?”  
Within a fraction of seconds, Exature's gaze turned solicitous.  
“Of course I do. Don't you?”  
Montparnasse shrugged.  
“I'm not sure if what you define as 'good' as ever truly been an option for someone like me.”  
“Goodness is always an option. Nobody is born inherently evil.”  
“How can you be so sure?”  
“Well, you turned your back on that man you used to know and whatever connected the two of you, didn't you?”  
Despite his previous rush of honesty, this time, Montparnasse could not bring himself to tell Exature the truth. That he had not wanted to split up Patron-Minette like this, that Claquesous, Gueulemer and the other had been the first thing he could call a family. That even though time had passed and his feelings and thoughts about everything had changed, there still was an undeniable, primal part of him connected to his old life, a part he could never bring himself to leave behind. Exature had placed his trust in him. Montparnasse did not want to disappoint and betray him like this, especially now that he had promised him he would try to become a better person.  
“On top of that, I've known you for more than two years, Montparnasse. We all have. Please believe me when I say not one of us would have accepted you in our circle of friends so easily if we didn't believe you were a good person.”  
Instead of answering, Montparnasse raised his cup of tea in pale reference to a glass of wine, drinking to the belief others had in himself. It was a feat he would never achieve. 

After this, something changed between them. Exature grew more open towards Montparnasse, showing him this and that, arguing with him about everything, from social essays to mediocre parodies and on the rare occasion, even gossiping about the newest scandal Paris' literates had to offer.

It was a clear January morning when Exature came to visit Montparnasse at his apartment, a bundle of paper under his right arm. It was his new novel, which Exature wanted him to proofread and criticise. Reluctantly and for lack of anything better to do, Montparnasse agreed, which later on, he sometimes wished he hadn't done. The novel, which was a biographical story telling the life of Pierre Lupinte, a bourgeois turned criminal, from his birth to his execution was something Montparnasse knew the cushioned and spoiled Monsieurs and Madames would find great joy in reading, for they had the same amount of naïve and ignorant optimism as Exature, if not even more, and even though Lupinte did not live in the lap of luxury, his life was still much better than should have been possible if your only possibility of survival were crimes. When Montparnasse finally returned the manuscript, it looked as if the paper had been completely soaked in black ink. Montparnasse was determined to destroy every false illusion Exature had of the people and the life he was writing about. He dreamed of easily acquired wealth, of infiltrating the highest levels of the Parisian society to bribe and charm the rich in one's own favour. It was nearly painful to see him realise how unglamorous the life he had imagined for his protagonist really was. Montparnasse told him about the rats he used to share an apartment with, of the hunger which had been his most faithful companion back in his old days, of the cold which had slipped through his clothes and skin, through his flesh and bones until one day it had taken in his entire being and imprisoned his heart in its icy, dead hands. He talked about loneliness, hurt and the simple but daily joy of a having survived the day once more, a joy he embraced whenever he let himself fall on his cockroach-riddled mattress. He told Exature about the pain putting his body on fire whenever he had a job to work while his whole flesh was covered in bruises. He told of his lungs, bursting in agony whenever he had to run from the law, told of the impossibility to know whether the blood staining your shirt was yours or somebody else's, told of life debts he still owed some people, most of which had probably died several years ago without him knowing. He told Exature of the life he wanted to write about. During all this time, Exature listened, nodding or humming in agreement at the right moment to show his understanding of the matter without interrupting. Not once did he ask a question or for a detail. Those were all things Montparnasse was grateful for, for he had never voiced his experiences out loud before, not in such a serious and personal manner, never with someone who had not lived through the same things.  
It took Exature one more year to finish the novel. Montparnasse was not allowed to read it until it was published. When he finally did, he was greeted on the first page by an acknowledgment he had never expected to read.

****_For my dark haired muse,_  
born out of a grave of misery,  
who opened my eyes  
and made me see the world in a new light. 

The novel itself had stayed as it had been in the first draft, only that Exature had changed his unbearable naivety for some sort of careful but touching and inspiring optimism. It was somewhat even refreshing to read. Montparnasse felt himself smiling when he read a scene in which Pierre was bantering with a younger boy from the streets, who was urging him not to pickpocket an old man but to take the money of a much better dressed and therefore richer young woman. Pierre vehemently refused to and instead went through with his plan of lightening the old bourgeois' pockets, which content he immediately used to buy the young woman a beautiful bouquet of red roses, inviting her to take a cup of tea with him as he handed her the crimson flowers.  
Montparnasse remembered this coup of his quite well. Gavroche had just helped him avoid Thénardier for a week and required repayment which Montparnasse could not give him. Of course, the cup of tea had not been the end of his acquaintance with the charming young lady. Taking every chance which offered itself, Montparnasse had only left her the next morning as he stepped out of her house, with hazelnut chocolate and biscuits for Gavroche as well as a new corset, heels, and lipstick for himself under his arm. It goes without saying that Gavroche held no grudge after receiving the generous and expensive presents the older thief had brought him and so their unorthodox work relationship went on for a few more years.  
Curiously enough, in the novel Pierre left the young woman and never saw her again after he stepped out of the café, even though Montparnasse recalled quite clearly to have told Exature the entire story.  
Oh well, it was not as if the muse was allowed to tell the artist what to do with the inspiration they gave them. It simply was not their purpose.

One week later, Montparnasse met up with Exature in the Jardin du Luxembourg. He had just finished reading the newest issue of the _Revue Parisienne_ which had featured a praising critique of Exature's novel, when he saw his friend waiting on a bench, watching the walkers pass by, holding a newspaper in his right hand.  
“How are you, Exature?”, Montparnasse greeted his friend.  
“Good, thank you. Or at least as good as I can be with Julien tearing apart my novel once again.”  
André Julien was a young and controversial however highly rhetorical critic, who had already written a devastating critique of Exature's first novel and now, as it seemed, about his second as well.  
“What did he write?”, Montparnasse asked, not having read _La Presse_ , where Julien published his writing, yet. Without saying another word, Exature handed Montparnasse the newspaper he was holding. It was open on page 5. Montparnasse quickly scanned the article. Where others had written about “ _realistic and touching storytelling_ ” or “ _the grandiose result of a two years wait_ ”, Julien thought “ _Exature's first novel was already disappointing and most definitely overrated enough, so the sheer mediocrity of his newest work is generally unsurprising._ ” but that “ _the saddest thing I learned through this novel is my colleagues incapability to recognise Exature's complete and in my eyes obvious lack of stylistic, literalistic and even empathetic talent._ ” Not feeling the need to read any further, Montparnasse gave the newspaper back.  
“Well, it does not surprise me that he writes something like this. It has always appeared to me that Julien was somebody who could never change his opinion about somebody, and if he had only written one positive sentence about your book, people might have thought he actually likes you,” said Montparnasse, finally sitting down on the bench as well.  
“It still gives him no right to write something with such little taste and as it seems no knowledge of what creating a story, a person, actually takes!”  
“I don't think you'll be able to stop him from making a living by tearing others down. It seems as if his 'tasteless writing' as you call it sells rather well, and that's the only thing that counts.”  
“Yes, but that's a dishonor for literature! And I do not wish to say that the only worthy feedback is positive feedback, but the critic should always keep in mind that the goal of his writing should be to help the author he's writing about improve, for what else could be the purpose of a critique?”  
“Money and fame, I guess.”  
Exature only gave Montparnasse a stinky look and turned away from him again. They said nothing for a good two minutes.  
“You should become a critic as well, Montparnasse.”  
“I beg your pardon?” It could not be that he had heard correctly. Who in their right mind would want to publish Montparnasse's uneducated, non-academical opinion?  
“Critiques. You should write and publish them. Look, when I gave you my first draft, you told me openly and honestly what you thought about it and gave me everything I needed to make it to the book that was finally published. You were right, the first version was downright terrible, but with your help, it became something people liked and enjoyed reading while at the same time learning something about the world they were living in. Your opinions on everything are always backed up by evidence and nothing you ever say isn't thought through. I'd even go as far as to say it is a crime to withhold your literalistic knowledge from the world, and you promised me you would not return to your previous criminal life, didn't you, Montparnasse?” Exature's face had taken on an incredibly serious expression and Montparnasse could not bring himself to tell him that first of all, he had promised he would _try_ and secondly, not publishing one's opinion in a newspaper was most definitely not a crime. Montparnasse sighed.  
“I will think about it.”  
For him, this specific topic was over. 

One year later, all of Paris was only talking about one thing: Julien's brilliant first novel, the “ _book of the century_ ” as some claimed. Two weeks after the publication, all of Paris was talking about a devastating first critique by a mysterious and previously unknown Jean Lachaise, tearing apart the novel sentence by sentence, page after page. The novel it was criticising was pushed into the shadows. Some literalistic salons even spent entire afternoons talking and debating about the critique and Jean Lachaise instead of the book itself.  
Exature however, didn't lose a word about it, even though Montparnasse saw him quickly hide a newspaper under the table when he stepped through the door and for days, whenever Montparnasse turned around a bit faster than was considered normal, Exature was looking at him and wearing a strange kind of smile on his lips. Soft, touched, _loving_ , even. 

The next critique by Jean Lachaise was highly anticipated and as it seemed, it did not disappoint. Once again there were talks about the article and even critiques of the critique itself.  
One week later, Montparnasse moved to a new apartment on the side of the Seine.

Over the next few years, Jean Lachaise grew to be a household name in France's literature circles. Several invitations to public events were published in newspapers, for nobody truly knew who the man behind the name was and the director of the _Polymnie_ , the newspaper which published the critiques, kept the secret of his most famous writer and one might have thought he did so out of jealousy and greed. The University of the Sorbonne had asked him to teach for a semester, a request which was received by cold and dead silence.  
Nearly every book praised by Lachaise sold out within a few days and if he didn't, the authors often made sure to follow every bit of advice included in the article. Most of the time it paid off, and their next book was a raging success in all of France. 

Ever since meeting each other for the first time, Exature and Montparnasse had grown close and always were on good terms. It took the year 1847 to arrive for them to fight, defending their respective point of view without compromise, restraint or sympathy for the other.  
It all started in October when Exature received an invitation to a republican banquet. Everybody had heard of them. He had already been greatly displeased about the rejection of the lowering of the cens tax for the elections, and even though he said himself that he had never taken and still did not take great interest in politics, Exature agreed to come, partly out of genuine concern, partly out of curiosity. Montparnasse was not pleased about the decision, but no matter the arguing, not matter the pleading, he did not manage to convince Exature of missing the reunion. He did not manage it for the next banquets either and each time, their fights grew worse.  
“Why are you so opposed to the idea of change, Montparnasse? Can't you see the people are unhappy? Can't you see the system is unjust? Why are you trying to keep me from helping them?”  
“Because I know how these kinds of things turn out, Exature! You are trying to change things through your writing, but words achieve nothing, only actions do! And the price you have to pay for these actions, for this change you so desperately want is not one I'm willing to pay.”  
“You are a coward, Montparnasse.”  
“But at least I'm not throwing away my life for foolish hope.”  
They did not speak a word to each other again. Then the banquet of the 19th of February got postponed to the 22nd.  
When Montparnasse heard the news, something buried deep within him began to stir, something he had nearly forgotten. As he stepped out onto the street, the atmosphere in the air hit him as one recognizes a scent or a feeling they had only experienced once but which marked them so deeply they could never forget it. Exature had been right, all these months ago. The people of Paris were unhappy and they wanted change. Montparnasse could feel the restlessness which oozed from them with each movement, with each step, and he could see they would not lose hope until they died, pierced by a bayonet or bleeding painfully onto the pavement, shot with a bullet which might have been meant for them.

On the morning of the 22nd, Montparnasse woke up to loud screams in the streets.  
_Long live the reform! Down with Guizot!_  
Running to his window, he saw a stream of people marching in direction of the Quai D'Orsay. They were all starring straight ahead, fury and determination lightening up their eyes. The time had come. The people wanted change and they would wreak havoc in the process. Montparnasse was not ready to witness these kind of events a second time. Without thinking any longer, he took his only bag and began to pack his things. Slower than he could have, but also more carefully. Even though he had more money than he ever could have imagined, Montparnasse still paid careful attention to all of his belongings, especially clothes. He did not want to buy them again any sooner than necessary. In less than half an hour, everything was ready. Luckily, the stream of people had already gone on to other goals and the street was more or less empty with the exception of the occasional street urchin, who went on to do his normal business. One tried to pickpocket Montparnasse, but one glare from him and he ran off in the opposite direction. It was not the right day to impede oneself with business like this. 

At the end of the day, Montparnasse had arrived at Châtillon-Le-Roi. At the city hall, they announced the military occupation of Paris. Montparnasse congratulated himself. It had been the right decision to leave Paris this early. God knows what he could have gotten himself into. Now he could only hope things finished on a more positive note than they did 16 years earlier. It was a foolish hope he had, but hope nonetheless.  
The next day, Montparnasse decided he would stay at the village until everything had blown over. Châtillon-Le-Roi was just the right distance from Paris to be informed in case anything important happened, but still far away enough not to be endangered by any development of the events, or he would at least have enough time to pack his bag again and flee once more.  
In the afternoon, a messenger came to announce that the Garde Nationale had taken the side of the people and that the King had replaced Guizot with the Count Molé. It seemed the situation had calmed down. Montparnasse would stay at his hostel for two more days to make sure everything was fine in Paris, and then he would go back.  
The next morning, the situation was worse than ever. It seemed that there had been attacks on civilians the previous evening, and now the people of Paris had taken to arms. Workers, students and the little bourgeoisie were fighting side by side. Montparnasse was on edge the entire time, desperately hoping that neither Exature nor the others had done anything stupid or rash. Of course not, he told himself, they know the value of their own lives, they will not risk it for something like this. They won't sacrifice themselves like Jehan did. For the first time in years, Montparnasse's thoughts came back to sweet, gentle Jean Prouvaire, who had died in a shower of bullets. Montparnasse's heart cracked once more. It seemed as if his love had not died yet after all.  
In the late afternoon came the news. The king had abdicated in favour of his nephew and was on his way to exile.  
On the 25th of February, they learned about the proclamation of the French Second Republic. Montparnasse returned to Paris 5 days later. 

For one week, Montparnasse did not hear anything from Exature, so he went to his apartment. When the landlady heard who he was looking for, she turned sad and maybe, just maybe, there were tears in her eyes.  
“Oh, you haven't heard? He was one of the 35 killed at the Boulevard des Capucines. His parents already came for him yesterday morning. I'm sorry you didn't get to say goodbye to him.”  
Montparnasse didn't reply anything. He simply thanked her for the information, bid her goodbye, and made his way back to his apartment.  
A hollow echo filled the room when the door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hesitate to leave me a comment if you have anything to say about this chapter, be it negative (as long as its constructive and not mindless hate) or positive, or even if it's only a question! I'm pretty sure the historical part of the chapter is probably more confusing than anything else.


	5. Euterpe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, aka the one part of the story I wrote all the rest for. I hope you enjoyed the story, and if you have anything to say, be it positive or constructive criticism, please don't hesitate to leave a comment or to contact me on tumblr @mont-parnasses.

It was a clear and bright yet cold day, as was usual for February. Montparnasse was wandering through Paris, top hat on and his coat drifting behind him in the wind. Life had been good to him in the last 16 years. His apartment had stayed the same, but the landlady had changed. The new one, her name was Josephine was Châtelet, had spent too much time worrying about Montparnasse and his celibacy, until he had told her his last love had died tragically and that art and beauty had been the only thing worthy of his time and attention ever since. After that, she had stopped inviting him over for tea where she could introduce him to some of her friends who had coincidentally dropped by at the exact same moment. These meetings were not something Montparnasse was nostalgic about.  
Jean Lachaise continued to write and publish his critiques after a short period of silenced disinterest and as the newspaper was bought, Montparnasse's income grew steadier and his wardrobe fuller. Even though he always had paid attention to wear clothes which were of fine quality and material, now he could acquire them legally and tailed to his size without having to wash out blood before he could wear them. Montparnasse himself had not been the only one pleased with his improvement in style, as he was stopped several times in the streets by both men and women asking him where they could find clothes similar to his. Life had been good to him.

He had just sat down at the _Closerie des Lilas_ and ordered a coffee and a croissant -it was a nice day to relax a little bit- and just finished eating, when his attention was captured by a young man standing next to his table, pointing at the free chair next to him.  
“Good afternoon, sir. Pardon me, but is this seat taken?”  
“No, please, suit yourself.” Montparnasse gestured for him to sit down and immersed himself once more into the book he was reading. The man now sitting next to him was of particular physique. Greek nose and high forehead toppled by a full head of blond locks which would have framed any other features quite well, however in this particular case, one might have argued that it was not the most strategic haircut for his strong square face. He seemed like a rather unique fellow, if Montparnasse had to give his opinion. However, as no one had asked him, he kept it to himself.  
The stranger ordered a cup of tea and, just like Montparnasse, opened up a book he had brought with him somewhere near the middle and began to read. The two of them continued to sit there in silence.

A waiter had just cleaned up the table next to them when he took a step back without warning and stumbled against Montparnasse's neighbour, causing him to inadvertently drop both his book -which was unfortunate at most- and his hot tea, the latter being so hot it was still steaming. Luckily, it closely missed its owner's leg and fell down to the floor, shattering loudly in the process but at least the only thing being damaged in the whole affair.

“Please forgive me, sir, I did not know you were sitting behind me. I am immensely sorry. I will immediately get something to clean up everything and bring you a new cup of tea. Please do not touch anything, sir, you might cut yourself.”  
While the waiter hurried away, Montparnasse leaned down to pick up the book from the floor. He recognized it, having read it three months prior but ending up writing his critique about another one.  
“Interesting choice of reading material, my friend,” said Montparnasse as he handed the book back. Instantly, the man's face lit up in excitement.  
“Ah, you know it? That's a surprise! It is a rather unknown ensemble of poetry, none of the big papers have published anything about it yet. My name is Catulle Mendès.” He stretched out his hand. Montparnasse shook it, smiling.  
“Montparnasse. Pleased to meet you.”  
“Like the mountain?”  
“Unfortunately nothing as valuable. Only like the borough. But tell me, what do you think about the poems?” He pointed to the volume. With an enthusiastic gleam in his eyes, Mendès began to explain. The waiter came, cleaned up the tea, brought a new cup and went away again while the both of them continued to talk. Finally, it began to grow dark and Montparnasse had to excuse himself.  
“I like you, Mr. Montparnasse. I believe I know some people who would be highly interested in getting to know you, as you would be in getting to know them. What do you say? Next Monday at noon, here again?”  
Montparnasse smiled and tipped his hat.  
“It would be my pleasure.” On his way back, Montparnasse passed through the gardens next to the Boulevard des Invalides and gave a street urchin who had taken to wait before his porch a few sous so he could buy himself something to eat. Back at home, he hung his coat over a chair and let himself fall of his sofa. Catulle Mendès sure had a lot of interesting things to say.

The following Monday, Montparnasse made his way back to the Closerie. When he arrived, Mendès was already there, sitting in the same place as the last time. As Montparnasse sat down, he greeted him with a soft smile. “It is good to see you again! The others have yet to arrive, but I think you will get along wonderfully. Ah, there is Lemerre!”  
Montparnasse turned around, following the direction in which Mendès was looking. Walking towards them was a sharply dressed man, had on his head and cane in his hand. Mendès and he seemed well acquainted and when the former stood up to welcome his friend, Montparnasse rose as well. “Lemerre, my friend, thank you for coming! May I introduce you? This is Montparnasse, I've told you about him. I think he would be the perfect addition to our new project. Montparnasse, this is Alphonse Lemerre. We are currently working together on a new collection of poems.”  
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands, sat down and Lemerre ordered a cup of coffee.  
“So apparently you agree with our vision for what the future of poetry holds,” began Lemerre, opening the conversation.  
“That depends entirely on your visions.”  
“Ah, a smart and independent fellow. You see, romanticism is dead. The poets and authors of today have lost sight of the true purpose of art. They see it simply as a tool to tell their ideas, as a way to reach their goal. They have forgotten that the true goal of art is art itself. Tell my, my friend, how well do you know Gautier?”  
“I have made myself quite familiar with his work.”  
Montparnasse had read “ _Le Roman de la Momie_ ” 4 years prior and written a critique which was dusting away in one of his drawers. The director of the _Polymnie_ had deemed the novel to old to write anything new about it.  
“Then you know his phrase: 'Art for Art's sake'. This is our mantra. Enough of this so called _litérature engagée_ , enough of politics and social critiques in our books. Art is supposed to be beautiful and poetry even more so. We plan on collecting this kind of poetry and publish it for the masses. The work must be beautiful through and through, both in looks and in sound. So, my friend, do you agree with us?”  
Montparnasse could not say he disagreed. The coffee arrived.  
“To entirely agree with you, I would have to read some poems you think are accomplishing everything you're telling me about. However, I like the direction you're going. Now, tell me: What would be my role to play in all of this?”  
“I assume you are a poet yourself. Or at least a writer.”  
“Not in the sense that I would be of any use to you.”  
Lemerre turned do Mendès.  
“Why do you think he would be the perfect addition?”  
Now it was Mendès turn to get this gleam in his eyes that Montparnasse had already noticed in Lemerre's when he had spoken prior.  
“You see, Montparnasse may not be a creator as we think it, but he is an artist like I have never met before. I truly believe that where others create art from their own mind, from nothing, Montparnasse can make everything that already exists into something unique and memorable. I think Montparnasse is the one who can make everything we receive into something great, remarkable even, worthy to be remembered after we are long gone and several centuries have passed.”  
“Hm, well if you put so much trust in him, I am willing to try him. You see, Montparnasse, Mendès has never been wrong about something like this and this poetry we are talking about is more important to me thant anything else. Tell me, do you know the Passage Choiseul?”  
Montparnasse nodded.  
“Come to the number 23 tomorrow if you are interested in reading some of the poems we think are doing justice to our ideals, as you've put it. Maybe we do need someone like you after all.”

The Passage Choiseul was located near the Opera, in the 2nd arrondissement. Despite being relatively close to his apartment, Montparnasse had yet to visit it in daylight. It would also be the first time he would step inside one of the houses or shops with the goal to meet someone there.  
The address Lemerre had given him was a small bookshop. When he entered, he was greeted by an old lady, who looked as if the world could shatter into a million pieces around her and she would simply shrug it off as just another day. When she saw Montparnasse, she walked out through a door at the back of the shop. A few moments later, Lemerre himself stepped into the shop to welcome Montparnasse.  
“Come in, come in, I am glad you could make it. I just received something this morning that I think might interest you.”  
Montparnasse gave his coat to the old woman and followed Lemerre into his office. “Here, read this. These are Beaudelaire's latest works. I presume you have heard of him?”  
“If I didn't, I would have lived behind the moon,” Montparnasse replied absent-mindedly, already engrossed in the words and verses on the paper he was holding in his hands.  
“Do you have more of these?”, he asked after a few minutes. Smiling somewhat triumphantly, Lemerre all but walked back to his desk to get another bundle of paper from his drawer. Soon enough they were both sitting over the poems, arguing about this and that until finally Montparnasse asked for feather and paper and began writing down what needed to be improved or polished.

Over the next few months, Montparnasse spent his time writing letters to Beaudelaire about his poems, reading new poems, discussing with Mendes, Lemerre and several of their poets whenever they met up at the Passage Choiseul -for it was always Lemerre's bookshop they were meeting up- or writing critiques for Jean Lachaise. Everything was coming together quite nicely.

At the end of April, Montparnasse, who had lived healthily and without suffering from any of the symptoms that normally came with old age, got sick. He could not get up from his bed, his head, his chest, and every single one of his limbs felt as if he was holding it into fire. Most of the time, he could not breathe and when he could, it hurt. Thanks to his years of good health, Montparnasse had forgotten what it felt like to have a body which was not working as well as one wished it did. When the doctor came, the medicine tasted horrible, but at least it did not make him regurgitate everything he had in his stomach, unlike any meal he had tried to eat.  
It took Montparnasse 4 weeks to recover and when he finally did, he felt as if someone had taken the world from Atlas' back and put it on his. When Mendès came to visit him one time, he brought a cane which he leaned against the nightstand. One week later, Montparnasse showed up leaning on said cane. Nobody said a word.

The sickness weakened Montparnasse. He had grown haggard and his cheeks hollow. When he took a walk in the sun, he quickly had to sit down. He was easily tired, even though he didn't like to admit it. Slowly and with a lot of perseverance, he began to walk more and more, stayed out longer and finally even managed to spend most of his days without his can or help from others. One might have thought he was back to his previous state of health, if he hadn't called a  
hackney-carriage more often than before whenever he needed to get home.  
But it worked and he worked and nobody said anything about it.

Spring had gone and summer come and the summer holidays for the students had just started. Montparnasse had accompanied Louisa Siefert to the Gare du Nord, where she had to take the train at 11:30 to Lyon. Like most people Montparnasse mingled with these days, she was involved in Mendès and Lemerre's project as well and since they had met each other in the little bookshop at the number 23, Montparnasse and Louisa had grown quite close. The conductor blew his whistle, the heavy engine  answered the call, slowly the iron wheels began to move and the train left the station. Montparnasse was just about to leave the station as well, when a loud argument made him stop in his tracks and turn around. Standing in front of a young boy, he couldn't be older than 17, were two conductors, blocking the youngling in his path. It seemed as if the younger fellow was in trouble, for he was frantically looking right and left, as if in search for help or at least some assistance. Intrigued, Montparnasse approached the little group. The boy had something fascinating, something he had not seen in a long time. Soft, yet wild and with a gaze which passed over everything mundane just to stop whenever it saw beauty of the most unusual kind. “I did have my ticket. Some must have stolen it from me, believe me, I...” The boy's voice was clear and melodious, still unsure about the pitch it would settle in soon enough. As Montparnasse continued to pay attention to their conversation, an idea began to blossom in his mind. Maybe it was this past memory he had recognized or maybe it was his still strong distaste for any kind of legal authority, but before he could decide otherwise, Montparnasse had already stepped forward and turned towards the boy.  
“Francois! I have been looking for you everywhere!” Francois was a good name, an ordinary one. No one would question a name like  
Francois. As it seemed both the boy and the conductors were more startled by his volume than by what he was saying, for the look  
with which the boy looked up was most definitely not the one of surprise anyone gets whenever they hear their name shouted in a crowd by a voice they do not recognize. “I remember the last time you got lost, Martine wouldn't let me hear the end of it for weeks. Bonjour Monsieurs, I'm glad my nephew finally has the common sense to ask for help, otherwise he would never have found to our house. Thank you for your service. But now we must hurry. Aunt Martine has certainly already finished cooking for you.” Thankfully for Montparnasse, the boy was quick-witted, immediately understood the little game Montparnasse was playing and decided to roll along. He darted to Montparnasse's side, luckily without trying to touch him, for it would have been weird for a boy of his age to be so  
affectionate of his uncle and it would have accomplished nothing but making Montparnasse uncomfortable.

“Didn't you tell us you were in Paris to visit a friend, boy?”  
The conductor seemed to pay no attention to Montparnasse as a person with the exception of using his appearance to give the kid even more trouble. Originally, Montparnasse had hoped that he could get the boy out of this situation simply by showing up and telling his little story, for most of the time confidence and clothes which showed off wealth were enough to put off any officials, but it seemed that Montparnasse had the misfortune of meeting the exception which confirms the rule. He would have to take this a step further.Montparnasse stepped in front of the boy.  
“Look, Monsieurs. I'm sure there has been a misunderstanding. However,  
this can easily be solved, can't it?”  
“No, it cannot. Your... nephew here had just gotten off the last train from Charleville and is unable to show us his ticket. Until he will do so, we must keep him here or at the nearest police station.” The conductor stood a little straighter, as if he had to prove that Montparnasse did not intimidate him even though he was 2 heads taller, not counting the top hat. Montparnasse turned around to the boy once more. He still looked the same as one minute ago. Previously neatly combed but now unkept hair, clothes he had slept in with a bag full of paper sticking out of it hanging over his shoulder. In his eyes was glistening an already quite developed seed of rebellion and an unhidden fire from an always burning anger deep within him. He was from a rather well off family in which he did not belong, that Montparnasse could tell. Repressing a sigh, he faced the conductor again.  
“He must have lost it somewhere along the way, However, he has paid the money of his travel, I can assure you. Not if that was all, I must ask you to excuse us. I'm a busy man and I don't have all day.” With these words, he took the boy's suitcase and walked to the nearest exit, leaving the conductor behind with his colleague and 150 Francs.  
They did not try to stop him. 

“Thank you very much for your help, Monsieur, but I'm fine now. You can give me my suitcase and I won't bother you any more.”  
“No. We need to go outside first. If I leave you alone now, they might get suspicious. Do you have a place where you can stay while you're here?” Not that Montparnasse had any interest in inviting the boy to his apartment in case the answer was negative. However, he also had no desire to let the kid sleep in the streets.  
“Yes, a teacher. He'll let me stay at his place.”  
Montparnasse did not question why anybody of this boy's age would stay at their teacher's on their own free will. It was none of his business.  
“What brings you to Paris alone and without a train ticket?”  
They were now standing outside the train station. Montparnasse put the suitcase down. The boy hesitated to answer, opening and closing his mouth several times before finally speaking up.  
“I've ran away from home. I needed to find inspiration and freedom and escape this cage of rules that was build around me.”  
“And why Paris?”  
“Paris is the home and muse of all great French artists and beyond. All great composers, painters, writers and poets live in Paris.”  
“You are a writer?”  
“A poet. Now it is my turn to ask: Why did you help me?”  
“You reminded me of someone I once knew. Wild and impetuous, just like you. You have their eyes as well. They were a poet, just like you. It would have been a shame to put your creativity and freedom in bonds.”  
“What happened to them?”  
“They were shot. Executed.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
“Don't be. It was a long time ago.”  
“Well, thank you for your help, Monsieur.”  
“Don't get caught again the next time you're pulling something like this. I hope you're going to appreciate your time in Paris...”  
“Arthur. Arthur Rimbaud.”  
“Montparnasse. Good Bye, Arthur.” They shook hands. Without waiting any longer, Rimbaud took his suitcase and walked in direction of Saint Vincent de Paul church. He was already 20 feet away when Montparnasse called after him.  
“Arthur, wait!”  
Rimbaud stopped and turned around. In a few long strides, Montparnasse walked over to him and handed him a small piece of paper.  
“Here's my address. In case you ever need my help.”  
At first, Rimbaud looked a bit lost, not knowing what to do with the paper. However, he quickly got a grip on himself and pocketed the address.  
“Thank you, Monsieur. I hope I won't need to.”  
They parted ways again.

By the beginning of October, Mendès, Lemerre and Montparnasse had decided on all the poems they wanted to publish. Most of them had already been edited numerous times, until both Montparnasse and the poet in question thought it was as perfect as it could be. Then began the final stage: they had to decide how to actually publish the entire collection.  
Days after days, the three of them met up to discuss everything from the paper they wanted to use to the order the poems had to appear in. So far, they had come up with a concept they liked, though all three of them knew it wasn't what they truly wanted. And so they continued to work, to think, to come up with ideas simply to dismiss them a few moments later. Thus was the rhythm of their day and work, until Montparnasse managed to fall ill once again. 

For the whole week, it had been raining cats and dogs and every day, you heard about the risk of the Seine overflowing. Against the warnings and wishes of the others, Montparnasse had made his way over the river each morning and walked along the narrow streets Paris called its own until he arrived at Lemerre's bookshop, depressingly empty by this kind of weather. Against the warning and wishes of the others, each day Montparnasse had made his way back to his own apartment when the sun began to set. So it came to no ones surprise when one day he woke up feeling feverish and had a coughing fit as soon as he tried to sit up. Once past that, he tried to stand but quickly had to catch himself against the wall so he didn't fall over. With nothing better left to do, he laid down in bed. 

Montparnasse had caught the flu. He was bound to his bed and the doctor came every two days to see if his condition had improved in any way. It never had. After two weeks of restlessly lying in bed, Josephine brought him an envelope, which had his address written on it in a neat, orderly handwriting, like a schoolboy's. Inside it where three neatly folded sheets of paper, bearing the same handwriting as the envelope. There were two poems. One entitled _”Le Dormeur du Val”_ and the other _”Tête de faune”_. The third sheet was a long letter with a flowing and elegant signature at the bottom. _Arthur Rimbaud_. For the next two days, Montparnasse didn't read anything else. 

Montparnasse's condition didn't improve. He asked Lemerre and Mendès to come to him so they could discuss all the points they had still to decide on. They followed his call, happy that he listened to the doctor's orders and didn't try to join them at the number 23. However, the grew more and more worried about his noticeably deteriorating state. Montparnasses's coughing fits grew longer and more pronounced as time went on, and with each day he grew older, meaning he was more vulnerable to the illness.  
One day, both decided it was enough.  
“Montparnasse, you are not fit to work any more. You should rest without any distraction like us keeping you from getting better. Lemerre and I will continue to work on the collection alone as well as work on a few names which we will present to you when the doctor says you are ready to leave the bed.” The title of the collection still was something the three of them as well as the poets published in the collection were in the complete dark about. No idea they had come up with so far had been close to being satisfactory.  
Montparnasse threw them out. 

It was the 13th of December and the sun had already set, when Josephine knocked on the door of the bookshop at the 23, Passage Choiseul, hoping to find one of Montparnasse's acquaintances or colleagues or friends there. When Lemerre opened the door, her look and stance already told him everything. She still spoke it out loud. “Monsieur Montparnasse passed away a few hours ago.”

Two days later, Mendès, Lemerre and all the poets who were in Paris that day found themselves in the formers office. The thought of Montparnasse clung to all of them. At the end of their meeting, they had decided on the much needed title of the poetry collection. 

On the third of March 1866, the first deliveries of the collection were issued. On the cover pronged in black, bold, contrasting letters:

**Le Parnasse Contemporain**

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please don't hesitate and come talk to me either on tumblr ([Helene-Of-Flowers](http://helene-of-flowers.tumblr.com/welcome)) or on twitter ([HeleneOfFlowers](https://twitter.com/HeleneOfFlowers))!


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